Unsolved
by Magical Butts
Summary: Written for the QLFC, Season 5, Round 2. In which a muggle writes letters to their good friend - unaware of the fact that she is a witch, and that now is the worst possible time to go ghost hunting in Little Hangleton... (aka. in which the writer tries to emulate Bram Stoker. I am so sorry Mr. Stoker. I failed you.)


Written for the QLFC, Season 5, Round 2.

Position: Beater 1

Position Prompt: Little Hangleton

Title: Unsolved

Word Count: 1,512

Beta(s): The Wanderers

Prompts:

 _1\. (image) black and white photos  
10\. (genre) suspense  
11\. (style) letter-fic_  
Go Wanderers!

* * *

 _June 11th 1995_

Dear Charity,

How have you been? It's been far too long since I've heard from you. Summer's here, so you can hardly use your 'being busied with students' as an excuse any longer!

Little Hangleton is lovely. I cannot understand why you told me to forgo this holiday, whatever your co-worker may have said! My family and I are now on much better terms, and even my stubborn teenage stepson has warmed to me. As it turns out, we share an interest in ghost hunting and the supernatural. I know you disapprove. But I promise I will not encourage Gerald to bother them, but merely to observe them and treat them with the greatest respect.

That being said… there is a reason I bring up my beloved old pass time. You see, upon the hill overlooking the village stands an old and very grand-looking manor. Windows boarded, tiles missing from its roof, ivy spreading all over its face - it was clear even from a distance that this place was no longer lived in. Curiosity got the better of me, dear Charity. You must forgive me, but I simply had to ask about the place. The locals told me of a terrible murder that had occurred within. One night, the village was woken by the screaming of a woman, running through the village crying about corpses in the big house. The family who had lived inside - the Riddles, I believe - had been tragically murdered. Strangely, when the police investigated they found absolutely nothing damaged. Nor was there any sign of a struggle. It was as if they had simply dropped dead, and all at the same time too! Many believe that it was the gardener: Mr Frank Bryce, who had murdered them. But there was no evidence so the police were forced to let the supposed fiend go, cleared of all charges. Perhaps it was a set up? Furthermore, when Mr Bryce entered the Riddle home last year, he never came back out. I'm sure the villagers hated to lose their villain. They have a towering affection for gossip. I suppose the woman I had asked must have seen the eager expression on my face, for she warned me not to enter the house lest I wish to be struck down by whatever had taken the lives of the Riddles and Mr Bryce.

Charity, I'm sure you're not surprised to hear that I can't resist! Please don't be upset. There _must_ be restless spirits within that house. If I can only calm them to prevent further deaths - there is talk of demolishing the manor, and I know that would only further upset whatever spirit is within. I must go inside. I will send you photographs with my next letter.

Please let me know how you are getting on and my love to your mother.

Much love and hugs,

Rosario

* * *

 _26th July 1995_

Dear Charity,

I am aware of your great disapproval of my renewed vigor for ghost hunting activities. However, I am afraid I can't let go of this particular case, no matter how you try to dissuade me. I feel that I am so close to the truth - the truth of what happened to poor Mr Bryce two years ago and perhaps also what happened to the Riddles.

Gerald has been helping me acquire incense and other such tools to lure out spirits. In the far east it is believed that some spirits are attracted to incense, and that sometimes the smoke will take their form. He has also been asking the locals for more information on the Riddles and on Mr Bryce, and of previous families that may have lived there. They are much warmer towards him than they are to me. They have told him their theories on who or what caused these deaths - ghosts, demons, a shadowy figure, Mr Bryce, the maid who'd called the police to begin with… Each story seems more and more fantastic.

At this stage, I have already ventured within the manor several times. I have managed to keep Gerald from entering by keeping him busy with gathering more information from the locals. At only fifteen, I think he is too young to enter such a dangerous building - and that is from a purely practical point of view, the place is falling apart. Who knows what sorts of accidents he could get into?

Anyway, initially, I had sought only to seek out whatever spirits may lurk within and capture their essence on camera in order to know where to perform certain cleansing rituals. But last Tuesday, I discovered something other than the usual coatings of dust and lonely-looking furniture; footprints other than my own had been left behind on the floor, and a long line leading up and down the house, as though something had been dragged. When I asked the locals (who still have not yet warmed to me) they told me that I was the only one 'mad' enough to enter that cursed place. First the Riddles, then Mr Bryce, I am certain to be next - or so they tell me. I am armed with my vast knowledge of the spirit world and my faith. No spirit can harm me, no matter how they might try. After all, I seek only the truth and wish them no harm. I will have to investigate further. Although I'm not sure I will be able to keep my son from entering the house. He is very, very keen.

I hope all is well with you and your family.

All my love and hugs, as always!

Rosario

* * *

 _28th July_ _1995_

Dear Charity,

Gerald is missing. You were right. I shouldn't have looked into that dreadful house. I searched for hours and hours, but it is as if he has vanished! There were footprints - his, I think. But they stop in one of the bedrooms and there is no set leading back out again.

The locals will not help me, and say I have sealed our fates by having set foot in that house in the first place. I fear, perhaps, that they are right.

I had hoped not to burden you with this dreadful news, but the rest of my family are busy looking for Gerald, they would have no time for my blubbering.

I hope you are alright, and thank you for always writing back so swiftly,

Rosario

* * *

 _29th July 1995_

Dear Charity,

The following letter will never reach you. It will remain forever in this small notebook I had on my person. But I feel I ought to document what I discovered either way, and it is to you to whom I feel most comfortable addressing, rather than some nameless reader, or myself, for I know all the details and may forget to write them down.

I went in search of Gerald again and discovered, to my surprise, a cellar below the house. As soon as I entered, I found my son crying out for help. How had I not heard him?! Whatever was binding him, however, would not come undone. No amount of tugging, pulling or biting would remove these ropes.

I had not heard anyone else entering the room, and Gerald must not have seen, but I was rendered unconscious. When I woke, Gerald was gone and I was alone in the cellar...or so I had thought. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realized the stonework was different, and that before me were bars - like a sort of prison. I was no longer in the cellar of that manor, but somewhere else entirely.

A woman dressed elegantly in strange robes with platinum blonde hair announced that I had fallen into her 'Dark Lord's' trap, and that _you_ would be arriving soon. I demanded to know where my son was, and the woman's smirk faltered slightly, she almost looked sorry for the briefest moment. She did not answer me, but left as I screamed and screamed after her.

I want my son back. I want to get out of this terrible place. Where am I? How did I get here? I cannot think properly like this. I just can't. My English is failing me, and I am sorry.

* * *

 _July. Perhaps August by now._

Dear Charity,

I think they have discovered my notebook, for when I looked for it in my back pocket it was gone. Luckily, I have one or two sheets to spare, and kept a pen hidden in a crack in the brick work of my prison.

My captors are strange, very strange indeed. They use language the likes of which I never heard before. Words like 'muggle' and 'mud-blood' are frequently tossed at me, as though they are some sort of insult. Are they?

I want my son back.

They have him, they must!

Yet every time I ask, I am either laughed at or ignored.

* * *

Dear Charity,

It is over. All over.

Señor, ten misericordia de mí por favor.*

 _[The pages are henceforth covered in blood and illegible]_

 _*Lord, have mercy on my soul._


End file.
